


The Ghost That Was Gentle

by sockssoft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Realism, ghosts and magic, sof and good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8477764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sockssoft/pseuds/sockssoft
Summary: John Watson moves into an old Manor House, completely aware of the ghost stories that haunt the beautiful estate. To him, however, the notorious phantom seems more intriguing than scary, much to the ghost's dismay.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was greatly influenced by wilde's 'the canterville ghost,' which is a parody of the usual victorian ghost story at the time.
> 
> x hope u enjoy x

I.

“Now, just so you are warned, Dr. Watson, the Manor is a bit haunted, they say.”

The keeper of the estate, Mrs. Hudson, tilted her head, waiting for the usual fearful reply she often got when mentioning the building’s notorious, ghostly resident.

Instead, John Watson, sitting on the bench outside of the Manor, glanced to the front face of the house and smirked softly, his eyebrows shooting up in inquiry.

“Oh? Who says this then?”

“Just about everybody,” she smiled, in the way that perhaps was more reminiscent of a mother than a landlady. “Many have fainted, lost their wits. The owner wants all the residents to know what they are getting into.”

“Seems unnecessarily nice of them. When can I properly move in?”

Mrs. Hudson leaned back a little, confused.

“You’re still interested?”

“Yes. Now, does the ghost come with the flat?”

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Why, I guess so. One bed, toilet, kitchen, and one ghost.”

Standing up with a grunt, John took hold of his cane, leaning on it with some resentment.

“Let me go get the paperwork, dear,” she said quickly, her mind still whirring with the peculiarity of this man.

As she tottered off, John stayed behind, staring at the large, Victorian mansion and the wild garden that surrounded the premises. It was a distance from London and would be more hassle to him to travel to work every day, but something about the foggy train-rides and the mysterious Manor gave him a shiver of intrigue.

He sighed. “Alright,” John declared, giving the building a good once over.

Ghosts weren’t real.

II.

Mrs. Hudson had only one ‘to let’ sign up even though the Manor could comfortably fit twenty or so residents. The landlady waved John off when he brought this up, telling him that she could only keep track of so many people. As well as the fact that residents seemed to run away from a haunted house. The only other people that roomed in the house was a quiet couple, but John never saw them because they lived in the east wing. Mrs. Hudson, however, liked to bring them up, as if trying to comfort some unspoken anxiety curling in John’s stomach. He wanted her to know that any nerves he might possess were not because of a rumored ghost.

John, a man of science, understood that there was no God and because of that, there could not be ghosts. The worst thing he thought, when walking through the long hallways, was that the stairs would be a pain on his leg, which Mrs. Hudson sympathized with as well. The interior was well-suited for a ghost, he pondered, but other branches of the Manor were bright with light flooding into the kitchen, illuminating the emerald wallpaper and the bright indoor plants, which disproved his original, light-hearted thought.    

John’s room was on the second floor, across from the main common room. On the first night of moving in, he delegated himself to the armchair beside the crackling fire. Some of the room was still living in the past, with its untouched books along the walls, globes, old compasses, fire-pickers, paintings, photographs, and anything else left from a time of excess. There were touches of modernity: a stereo on the bookshelf, iPhone charger growing out of the outlet like the vines from the ferns around the doorways.

Sighing, John took a sip of his tea and noticed that a part of the grey rug was stained red. He leaned close, placing his cup and saucer back on the end table. He stood up, barely leaning on his cane, inspecting the spot, its crimson like a predator’s eye staring back at him.

Mrs. Hudson walked into the room, holding a tray of muffins for a soft celebration. John shot up, spooked at the sudden sound of footsteps.

“Oh Jesus,” he muttered, holding his chest.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said, placing the tray down on the nearest table, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“No, no,” John replied. “I was wondering where this red stain came from?”

Mrs. Hudson _tsked_ at the stain as she approached, crossing her arms. “That stain has been there for as long as I’ve been in this Manor. I’ve tried scrubbing it, mind you, but I’m not as robust as I once was.”

“Well,” John smiled, finally having some sort of responsibility on his hands. “No worries, Mrs. Hudson. I can get rid of it.”

“Are you sure?” She questioned ominously. “The stain is rumored to have been left by the dead.”

III.

John cleaned up the stain. It wasn’t that hard, with a bit of elbow grease and some stain remover. He ate a muffin and chatted with his landlady before heading to his bedroom for a night’s rest.

The next morning, when he came back into the common room, he thought it a big joke.

The stain was back, this time a brighter cherry-red shade.

He narrowed his eyes at the stain, examining it for a couple seconds before huffing and grabbing the stain remover again. He clapped his hands together when the stain had disappeared yet again before realizing he would be late for his train. He gave a shout of goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, who was gardening outside, and headed to the city.

When he came home late that night, the stain had returned. It was a burnt plum color, like a bruised fruit.

John played the stain game for a couple more days, never showing any fear in the predicament. His scientific inquiry and observation told him that the stain can reemerge. Maybe it had to do with the air, the carpet, or maybe Mrs. Hudson or someone in the Manor were trying to make a point to him. In any case, it was getting a bit ridiculous. The blood stain wasn’t even the regular blood colors anymore, but neon green and fuchsia.

“If this is the work of some dead spirit,” John grumbled, somewhat sarcastically as he cleaned up the pink stain. “I’m _really_ enjoying the creativity.”

After some tea and watching a couple YouTube clips online, John headed off to bed. He scrolled through the blog his therapist tried to make him do and sighed, exiting out of the tab open on his phone. John rolled over, staring at the ceiling, his eyes weary for sleep. He thought about the rainbow stain, and realized that he was looking forward to it reappearing when he woke up.

Except he did not wake up in the morning, but was shaken awake in the middle of the night because of a strange moaning coming from the hallway. John sat up, listening closely, his heart rate steady.

It was definitely moaning accompanied by the sound of clacking chains. God, how could he sleep with that racket? John, perhaps a little too eager to see where his curiosity would lead him, stood up, using his phone as a flashlight.

In the dark hall was a pale looking thing, its body completely made of out of white bed sheets. Its face was intricately folded linens, an origami of agonizing facial expressions. The figure floated down the hallway slowly, one arm outstretched, holding a lantern while its papery legs, covered mostly by the linens like a white gown, were attached to a ball and chain. The silver clanged together like eerie wind chimes while the ghastly thing moaned.

John stared at it, as it slowly got nearer and nearer, but the ghost seemed to be more and more distraught as John continued to stand there, his phone in hand, gazing with humor and intrigue at this poor thing.

“Um,” John cleared his throat. “Do you want help out of those chains? They’re quite loud. Don’t want to be rude, but. I have work tomorrow so. If you don’t mind…”

The ghost halted, and even with its linen wrinkled face, it seemed to flush, moaning louder, with more bitterness. John was still not amused, which made the creature throw the lantern in disgust and disappear in a twist of silver dust, the bed sheets left crumpled on the floor.       

The stain did not appear the next day.


	2. Chapter 2

I.

John did not think he was being rude to the ghost at all. It was common courtesy to be quiet after a certain hour in the night and the ghost had to respect that. This wasn’t university, where the hall could be crowded with drunken laughter, noise at full volume any evening. This was supposed to be a quiet house. Somewhere John could relax into. Never mind that John felt. Lost in the quiet. Or that he craved for the loudness, the blood in his veins, the exhilaration. That didn't matter. 

He hoped he didn’t offend the poor thing, nevertheless.  

In mid-thought, John mused about the state of his sanity, but when he told Mrs. Hudson he had seen an apparition the night before, she seemed more relieved than worried.

“Can you describe it for me?”

“Well, it was covered in sheets with chains and was making a lot of noise.”

“Did it look too skinny, dear? Do you think it was eating all right?” she questioned seriously, looking at John with diligence.

“I thought ghosts don’t eat.”

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Hudson drifted off for a bit.

“Have you seen this apparition before?”

“I used to,” she replied, sadly.

John didn’t ask any more questions. He could tell Mrs. Hudson was going into a bit of a forlorn state.

“You weren’t frightened at all by what you saw?” she asked as John was getting up.

“No.”

“You’re not afraid?”

“I’ve been to Afghanistan,” John smiled, something hidden in his eyes, something lost.  

That night, John lay awake, trying to remember how one fell asleep in the first place. He thought about the stain that was no more and the tantrum that ghost had made when it realized John wasn’t scared of it.

The sound of footsteps suddenly crept up the stairs, into the hallway. John sat up instinctually, thinking about the heavy gun that lay untouched since the stain had visited him. He laughed at the idea of using it on the ghost. It seemed comical, even.  

The footsteps grew closer, the creaking of the floorboards hauntingly heavy in the utter silence of the Manor House. A shadow stretched up the wall in the bedroom, like an enormous beast, extending unto the floor and swallowing any moonlight that came from the bedside window.

 Just as John felt his toes tingling, his senses heightening, his feeling of being _alive_ rushing through him, did the figure show itself.

A white cat appeared at the foot of his bed, staring at him with huge golden eyes. Its mouth was a rosy pink as were its paws, ears flickering slightly when it heard John’s even exhale.

He laughed breathlessly, cupping his cheek in his palm, his eyes wild with a fond delight.

“I thought you were somebody else,” he whispered to the cat. “Are you Mrs. Hudson’s?”

The cat blinked at him slowly, but offered no explanation of its appearance.

“Maybe you’re owned by the couple in the east wing,” he shrugged.

The cat continued to stare, but after a couple seconds, stood up and pounced silently onto the bottom of his bed. It continued to stare with its warm eyes, deep like melted gold. The cat sat down with its paws hidden under its chest. It wouldn’t look away.

“Lonely, are you?”

John laid back against his pillow, not sure what to do with this strange guest. When the back of his head hit the softness of the pillow, however, he suddenly felt that the difficulty of sleep had disappeared.

He dreamt of a huge, expanding bed and a figure curled beside him, sobbing. He reached out his hand to comfort, but every time he reached forward they both grew farther and farther apart.

II.

“Mrs. Hudson, do you have a cat?” John asked over tea one afternoon.

“No. Is there a pest problem? Do you think I should get one?”

“No…it’s just. There was a cat that came into my bedroom a couple nights ago.”

“What color was it?” she questioned, sipping her tea.

“White.”

“Hm,” she scrunched her lips together, looking to the side. “I did have a cat long ago, but it ran away. I see it occasionally, but it’s awfully shy. I’m surprised it took a liking to you.”

He narrowed his eyes, but kept to himself.

“You think it’s the ghost?” he asked softly.

The ideas of ghosts and apparitions were far-fetched still, but John wasn’t about to scratch out possibilities, especially since he trusted his own observations.

“I’ve never heard of a ghost turning into a cat,” Mrs. Hudson said, though she seemed to be lost somewhere else.

“Maybe it’s a very special ghost.”

III.

After a particularly dull day at work, John sat in his usual armchair, dozing off with the television buzzing in the background. A glass of water was beside him as well as a small scheduling book he kept for his clinic consultations. He hadn’t bothered filling up his days with any more meetings than he needed as the job was practically boring himself to death. He could feel himself drifting in and out of slumber, a warmth circling inside his chest as the sound of the television let him think he wasn’t alone. Relaxing, John’s eyes grew heavy, until his head tilted, falling into a deep rest.

The sound of the monotonous news anchors abruptly stopped. John opened one eye, noticing that the telly had been turned off. Curious, he wiggled himself in his chair and looked around the room. That’s right, he thought. He really wasn’t alone.

After a pause, the photographs on the shelves started falling unto the floor, then the globe began turning, then the lights started flickering.

“Alright, John warned. “Enough…”

This only enlivened it. John’s scheduling book fell on the floor, the pages being flipped through, but not torn, which was interesting to John, in any case. The swords on the wall fell with a clang, the windows snapping open and closed until John got up.

When he clenched his fists and grimaced in irritation, all the commotion ceased, the lights coming to a warm dim.

“You want attention, don’t you?”

Silence.

John chuckled. “Typical.”

The windows clapped again with indignation. Entertained, John shook his head, but the windows slammed against the pane louder.

“I’m going to have to clean up this mess. Did you think of that?”

There was a pause after this statement, and then the glass of water on John’s side table moved a millimeter.

“Don’t you dare,” John whispered, pointing his finger at nothing in particular.

The glass wobbled and John glared. There was a quick pause and then the glass came crashing to the floor, shattering with a high screech all over the dusty carpet.

“Christ,” John said, shouting a bit at the end.

He could hear the ghost stomping off in a huff.


	3. Chapter 3

The wind tapped against the windows as John lied awake, the time past 14.00. It was unnaturally cold even with the windows locked, but the howling of the wind still beckoned itself, as if seeping through the walls to haunt the warmth underneath John’s covers. He was thinking about the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the deathly silence that pulled itself around the strange creaks and clacks of an old house settling.

Right before John was going to declare his resentment to his eyes that wouldn’t close, he heard, with a bit of excitement, a noise that traveled into his bedroom. It was eerie, like the sounds of a lonely instrument. The melody was the same repetition, until John could discover that it was the song of a violin. John was at the door without thinking. He opened it and like a gust of wind beneath his heals, John found himself following the tune, instantly drawn to it as it got louder down the darkly lit hallway.

Smiling, he followed onward, thinking the ghost clever in trying to scare him this time. It sure was creative, and not to mention, an excellent musician. The noise led him down the hallway, but took him to a closed door that John knew was the broom closet. He opened it, expecting to see possibly a floating violin next to the buckets and cleaning supplies. Perhaps a ghoulish beast with blood-stained blankets over its body. John swung open the door, his heart beating, eager in this feeling of being alive.

Instead, it was just the ordinary closet with its broom, mop, detergent, vacuum. John spotted the spray he used to get the stain out of the rug. The sad music continued, however, coming from behind the wall. Feeling somewhat like an idiot, he clamored into the closet and pressed his ear against the back of the wall. That tricky ghost was really doing an intricate show for him now, John thought.

There was a crease in the ornate wallpaper and as John slid his fingers down the lining, he discovered that behind the wallpaper peeled where the opening of a knob-less door was. He pushed lightly, his phone held up to give him some sort of light. The doorway led up to small, windy stairs and before John was thinking too deeply about what he was doing, he was ascending them.

The door at the top of the stairs was ajar and John, like a shadow, stood in the threshold, wondering if the apparition was going to sneak up on him from behind. That did not happen. John would have liked to concentrate on the eccentricity of the hidden room, at its huge bay windows, soft rugs, birdcages hanging from the ceiling, romantic vases and flowerpots, sheet music, ivy, painted skulls, quills, and large unfinished canvases leaning against the walls.

Instead, John’s eyes were focused on the thing floating in the center of the room, wearing bedsheets around their body like a Greco-Roman poet. The folded linens fell to the floor like a grand waterfall, entirely too excessive. The ghost had their head tilted, a violin tucked under their chin. The curls at their nape slicked with some sort of silvery liquid. When a string was plucked, ashy glitter flaked off of the aura around them.  

John did not know what to say.

The ghost turned around, having felt some sort of presence.

“Mrs. Hudson I—”

And then John saw their face, not carved with rotting blankets but glowing like a statue or a glossy oil painting. Their face angular, mouth pouted out suddenly in shock, unnatural eyes closing all of a sudden. They let out a small gasp, frightened, pulling the linens from their back up like a hood to hide their face. Still, John remembered those two seconds, the glowing skin like frosting and pink, rose-colored cheeks.

The violin did not drop to the ground when they let it go, but floated until bouncing safely on the couch beside the apparition. Ivy began to grow as the ghostly entity shouted.  

“Go away!”

“I thought you were trying to—”

They leaned away, the lights all shutting off in the room, and in the darkness John felt something grab his wrist, something else ushering him away at his feet. When the door slammed he had realized it was the vines and flowers from their pots, leaving John to contemplate what had happened as he returned down the stairs out of the closet door.

He had scared the poor thing, John thought, eyes widening. No. It was worse. He _humiliated_ them. Accidental, of course, but the verdict was still in.

Heart racing, and not out of adrenaline this time, but out of something lighter, John smiled fondly. Next time, he was going to make sure he didn’t embarrass the fellow.  


End file.
